


Flying Blind

by Aja



Category: Prince of Tennis
Genre: M/M, Seigaku, Tennis, tenipuri, tezuryo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-18
Updated: 2009-11-18
Packaged: 2017-10-03 07:59:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aja/pseuds/Aja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you to Alestar and Franzi, who both pistol-whipped the first half of this fic into shape.  It's the last half that hasn't been beta'd, and, as you'll notice, sucks.</p><p>This was written for <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/pillarchallenge/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://community.livejournal.com/pillarchallenge/"><b>pillarchallenge</b></a> #30, the Smut challenge, because I never write anything for them and when I do it is either too late to post or too late to post and held off because I am possessed with crazy ideas like demon genderswapping. :( Am worst mod ever.    At least there is no demon genderswapping in this fic.  Though Karupin changes species at several points.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Flying Blind

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Alestar and Franzi, who both pistol-whipped the first half of this fic into shape. It's the last half that hasn't been beta'd, and, as you'll notice, sucks.
> 
> This was written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/pillarchallenge/profile)[**pillarchallenge**](http://community.livejournal.com/pillarchallenge/) #30, the Smut challenge, because I never write anything for them and when I do it is either too late to post or too late to post and held off because I am possessed with crazy ideas like demon genderswapping. :( Am worst mod ever. At least there is no demon genderswapping in this fic. Though Karupin changes species at several points.

Title: Flying Blind (or, you know, you can call it Karupin Smash. I don't care.)  
Rating: soft NC-17.

This fic was written as a response to the following art, which was done for me as a gift by the lovely [](http://ficcentricity.livejournal.com/profile)[**ficcentricity**](http://ficcentricity.livejournal.com/). Fanart is the way to my heart. And clearly the way to all those other parts as well.

 

_________

Karupin has clearly been on too many trips, or so Ryoma thinks as a ball of fuzz darts out of his tennis bag into the middle of training camp. It's not like Ryoma isn't glad to see him, but this is Seigaku - they get kicked out of restaurants over wasabi. A week after Fuji decided to play hostess at Atobe’s nationals party, Atobe was still sending out mass emails threatening to sue them all for punitive damages after scarring his entire household staff. No one should ever let Inui-senpai near a game involving the words "truth" and "dare" again.

The blur of white streaking across the room incites panic. Sakuno screams, and then everyone else does too. Eiji is bouncing around going, "Oh, Echizen, you brought your pet squirrel!" while Horio states with perfect authority that it was a raccoon, and Momo, forgetting that he's only seen Karupin at Ryoma's house eight million times at least, barks, "Both of you are wrong! It's a groundhog!"

Kaidoh calls Momo a moron and hits him over the head with a towel. He looks hopefully under the couch for Karupin in the brief moment before Momo grabs his shoulder, hauls him up, and tries to punch him in the face.

"If it's a wild animal then we need to call animal control," Oishi says nervously. Then he squints at Ryoma in concern. "Echizen, what is a rat doing in your tennis gear?"

"RODENT ARRIVAL!" Taka-san booms from the kitchen, banging around what sounds like all the sushi knives he owns. "MUSKRAT LOVE, BABY!" Ryoma doesn't know how you hear "tennis camp" and think "bring cutlery."

"LET'S DEFEAT IT WITH TENNIS!" shrieks Tomo, as if she's ever defeated anyone with tennis. Well. Apart from Horio.

Everyone not currently fist-fighting shrieks their agreement. Ryoma mutters and swipes at Karupin's legs from under the counter. Nobody is defeating his cat with tennis. Over in the corner, Kaidoh throws an uppercut at Momo and an apologetic glance at Ryoma. Ryoma knows he’d help if he could, but it’s okay; he and Momo have their priorities.

Fuji doesn't so much as sidle up to him as miraculously appear. Ryoma starts in surprise and bangs his head on the underside of the counter. Karupin shoots him an unimpressed look, curls up beneath the far end, and lick his paws clean of travel dust.

"I have a better idea," Fuji says smoothly, blithely ignorant of Ryoma standing there rubbing his head. "Tezuka can help Echizen look for his cat. The rest of us can all go have lunch!" He smiles like this is the most brilliant thing he's ever heard anyone say.

Ryoma thinks about how in fairy tales, Fuji's character is the trickster who’s off trying to turn people into hats and wear them around or something. Fuji probably reads a lot of fairy tales.

So far the only one who hasn't said anything is Tezuka. He still doesn't, just comes over and kneels down beside Ryoma. Even when he squats he's so large he has to duck his head to even see under the counter. He's wearing his Seigaku jersey and the material bunches up around his bent knees, poking out in odd places and making him loom even larger next to Ryoma. There's something compact and warm about him even just like this that makes Ryoma go dry around the mouth, makes him duck his head and pull down his cap and glare at Karupin. Not in front of all these people, in front of Buchou, in front of his _cat_ \- who incidentally doesn't look fooled.

"Mrow," Karupin informs Tezuka.

"Ah," Tezuka says with complete sobriety, before reaching one long arm under the counter and gently pulling Karupin out by the scruff of his neck.

He deposits Karupin in Ryoma's arms just as gently, his fingers brushing Ryoma's coat sleeves in the process. Ryoma mumbles, "Thanks, Buchou," and buries his burning face in Karupin's fur.

At lunch time, Eiji tries to set a place for Karupin at the table. Instead they all wind up giving him their table scraps until Ryoma drags him away to prevent him eating himself sick. "You've been hanging around Momo too much," he scolds him as he deposits him in his bedroom. He and Momo are rooming together as usual - as the Seigaku tennis entourage has gained in prestige over the last few years (amazing what winning a few championships and having players who spent most of last year gracing the covers of Tennis Monthly, Tennis Pro Japan, and once even Sports Illustrated will do for a team budget; SI had compared Tezuka to Feds and Ryoma to Rafa, and Ryoma had to wear his cap constantly for a week so Tezuka wouldn't see the permanent grin on his face), it's gotten easier to rent a cabin with actual beds instead of just a big room with a floor.

When he sets Karupin on his bed, Karupin raises a paw and cleans his ears indifferently. "Don't go spilling all your secrets to Buchou," Ryoma says. He doesn't think Karupin would betray him like that, but Tezuka has uncanny levels of perception when it comes to Ryoma, so it's not a far-fetched idea that they might extend to Ryoma's cat. Actually...

"And no blurting things out to Kaidoh-senpai, either," Ryoma says, frowning. "Also, if you talk to Fuji-senpai, he'll talk back."

Karupin sniffs. Ryoma scratches him behind the ear he just cleaned as a remonstrance for having snuck his way into Ryoma's private sanctuary for a week, even though he doesn't really mind that much. He just hopes Horio can remember that Karupin's not a raccoon.

Ryoma doesn't have to worry, though. For the next two days Karupin mostly sleeps or crouches under the coffee table in the den. When he does come out, it's only to talk to Kaidoh-senpai or Tezuka-Buchou, as if to show Ryoma he can pick his own company just fine, thanks. He curls up next to Ryoma when Ryoma sleeps, which is a bit of a relief to him because it means there's less danger of Ryoma having some sort of hideously embarrassing dream or sleep talking or something, and waking up to find Momo giving him funny looks and sharing secrets Ryoma isn't looking to bond over. Instead he mostly dreams of breathing fur, and occasionally having his face trodden on by white horses with tiny soft hooves.

During the day he plays tennis, and plays tennis, and plays tennis. The weather for this time of year is unseasonably cool, and the breeze whips across his face whenever he pauses to rest. But the pauses are few and far between; Seigaku has to take nationals this year because it's Buchou's last year, and Oishi's, and Fuji's, and Kawamura's, and Inui's, and Buchou's, and Eiji's, and Buchou's. Ryoma will hit as many serves as Tezuka hits, he'll run as many laps as Tezuka runs, he'll match him every step of the way and then surpass him by at least five more. He knows Tezuka will be right behind him - he knows he'll be coming up fast and passing him by again. He knows it every time they fall in step beside one another, every time their eyes meet across the court. He burns all over with it. This is theirs, just theirs, and Ryoma honestly believes that the rest of Seigaku could lie down and sleep for a week and the two of them, just him and Tezuka, could win nationals together just by out-blazing the competition with intensity.

Being fifteen and perpetually on fire anyway probably helps. Wanting to breathe in Tezuka all the time probably helps, as does the unceasing awareness of time and how little of it they have left before Ryoma has to go back to America and Tezuka goes to university. Tezuka hasn't told Ryoma yet, but he knows anyway. He knows because of the way Tezuka's shoulders set whenever he talks to Ryoma, as if the dual pillars aren't enough to relieve him of his private burden. As if he doesn't know how to tell Ryoma - just Ryoma. Thinking about this for too long does weird things to Ryoma's stomach. He doesn't like it. And there is tennis to play, so much of it. He hopes he can perfect a serve this week that will eat right through Tezuka's resolve, his insecurity, his everything. Something that will burn its way into Tezuka and stay forever, the way all of this has stayed with Ryoma for three years.

By the third day he is exhausted and sated and ready to dig deeper within himself than ever, and by nightfall he all but falls into bed after dinner and stays there, concentrating on the beating of his own heart. His mind is stunningly clear and focused. He goes over serves and returns, techniques and training exercises, the litany of things he still needs to work on and perfect, the ever-expanding list of ways he knows he needs to grow. He plays the record of serve, volley, serve, return, in his head until he realizes all at once that Karupin isn't in his room.

This would be all right except that Momo has been out doing who knows what with Kaidoh every night so far, and he always slams the door when he gets back no matter how late it is. (Ryuzaki knows better than to be too strict about the curfew. Ryoma suspects this is because she has been breaking it herself to sneak off down the mountain and have a drink after all the students are asleep.) Ryoma doesn't want Karupin to get shut out after everyone has gone to bed.

Grumbling a little at how his muscles resist the thought of movement, he stumbles out of bed and down the hallways. Karupin's not in the kitchen or the den or outside on the porch. Ryoma checks the tennis courts, but it's not likely Karupin would have wandered that far. He checks the laundry room, the dining room, and the upstairs bath before heading back to the team rooms. It's still early yet but given that they have to be up at 5 am for the first of two daily jogs down the mountain and back, several of the team members are already in their beds or headed that way. Ryoma passes by what appears to be Fuji and Eiji painting each other's toenails and a lot of odd grunting noises coming from Inui and Kaidoh's room. Then he pokes his head into Tezuka and Oishi's room.

Oishi isn't inside, but Tezuka is. He's lying on his back with his eyes closed and a book pressed awkwardly by his side, as if he had been reading it and just fallen asleep in the middle. His glasses are still perched on his nose. Tezuka doesn't even take off his glasses when he knows he might be going to bed.

Ryoma is so intent on Tezuka's face as he moves forward into the room that he doesn't see Karupin sitting next to him until Karupin flicks his tail. They look at each other. Karupin is curled next to Buchou, and Buchou even has one hand lightly resting against Karupin's neck.

"Rubbing it in," Ryoma murmurs. Karupin replies with a final tail-flick that clearly anyone with wherewithal could find themselves in his position if they really wanted. Then he hops into Ryoma's arms and purrs loudly by way of encouragement.

Ryoma can't exactly curl up next to Buchou, though, so he just looks at him. His hair is actually lying down for once instead of spilling all over the place. There's a lock of it in his eyes, trapped between his forehead and his glasses. The rest of it is swept back, curling softly around his ears and clinging to his neck. Ryoma has never studied Tezuka from this close before. His hair isn't the same color all the way through. It's dark underneath and tea-colored on top, as if he actually absorbs sunlight from standing on the court all day. It looks soft. His features are soft, too. Ryoma hasn't thought of Tezuka's expressions as hard in years, not since the very beginning of this. It takes him by surprise anyway, how smooth Tezuka's features are when they aren't rigid with decorum or annoyance or worry. He's sleeping now, and all the concern has melted out of his forehead, out of his eyebrows and the dint below his bottom lip. He's almost a man, and pretty much always has been, but Ryoma thinks Tezuka has never looked younger.

He leans forward, being careful not to breathe, and carefully removes Tezuka's glasses from his face. The lock of hair catches between Ryoma's fingers. It is soft.

Tezuka doesn't wake up and Ryoma just stands there, looking at him.

Oishi-senpai comes in quietly after a time - Ryoma actually has no idea how long he's been there. He mumbles something about Karupin when he sees the look on Oishi's face, and then tries not to look as if he is fleeing when he walks back to his room. It's not like he was doing anything wrong, anyway. He doesn't think Buchou would mind knowing that Ryoma had been watching him sleep. Ryoma wouldn't mind. Back in his own room he turns off the lights and curls up in bed, more exhausted than before and happy to let sleep overtake him with Karupin still clutched firmly in his arms.

The room alarm is set for 5:00 am but he knows it is earlier than that when he wakes, knows from the slant of the light just breaking through the windows and the way his body resists. He coils around his pillow with a mumbled protest, and starts to pull the covers up when a soft, slightly scratchy voice says, "Good morning."

Ryoma opens an eye halfway, then all the way. "Hey," he manages, then yawns all over like Karupin.

Tezuka is kneeling beside the bed, already showered and dressed. Something like that would annoy Ryoma in anybody else, but Ryoma likes Tezuka all the time, even when he's annoying. Sometimes that's when Ryoma likes him best. Tezuka is looking at Ryoma now with the same expression he had when he was sleeping last night. Ryoma wonders how long Tezuka has been sitting there beside him. Momo is still snoring.

"You have something that belongs to me," Tezuka says. Ryoma wrinkles his nose in confusion and looks down at his pillow. Clutched in his hand exactly the way he left them are Tezuka's glasses. He looks at them. They're folded up and they don't look bent out of shape. He wonders if he should be embarrassed. He isn't.

He sits up with Tezuka's glasses still in his hand. Then he sets them on his nose. The world blurs sharply out of focus and his eyes sting. He glances over at the mirror on the wall, but can't see how he looks. When he looks back at Tezuka, though, he can read the hidden smile.

"They're too big for you," Tezuka says. He's trying to talk softly so he won't wake Momo, but this just makes his voice sound low and quiet and intimate.

Ryoma pushes them up his nose. They slide back down. "You can keep them. I don't need glasses."

"I know," says Tezuka.

"I had to - " Ryoma says, and then stops, awkwardly. He doesn't need to tell Buchou about Karupin, curled up at the foot of the bed at the moment. He probably already knows from Oishi. He looks down his nose at the glasses, face heating. A moment later Tezuka leans forward and starts to remove his glasses from Ryoma's face. When his fingers meet the frames, though, they also meet the sides of Ryoma's face, just above his cheeks. Tezuka stops moving, stops everything, and his fingertips rest there against the ridge of Ryoma's cheekbones.

This is the closest they've ever been and the only time they've ever touched beyond handshakes over the court. Ryoma knows exactly how many handshakes, but he doesn't know how to count this.

After another moment Tezuka takes his glasses and settles them on his own face, the frames sliding into place like a puzzle piece fitting where it should.

Ryoma leans over to straighten them. "Crooked," he explains, and then instead of moving his hand away he runs his palm all the way down the side of Tezuka's face.

Tezuka doesn't do anything, which Ryoma knows is the closest he will ever get to explicit consent. His eyes are knowing and bright behind his glasses. Ryoma scoots to the edge of the bed and runs his thumb over the fine stubble of Tezuka's chin. Sitting on the bed he's taller than Tezuka. He has Tezuka's face between his hands; Tezuka is just letting Ryoma touch him, letting him explore the curves of his face and feel out the pattern of his razor along the line of his smooth cheek. Ryoma suddenly feels taller and powerful, which makes him feel awkward, as if Tezuka is more vulnerable than he should be, even if he doesn't look it. He wishes they didn't have practice today. Tezuka is wishing it too.

They've never talked about this, Ryoma thinks.

Ryoma threads his hand through Tezuka's hair, watching the way Tezuka's expression just seems to get softer and softer. After a long moment Tezuka covers Ryoma's hand with his own, and tugs it gently away. Ryoma waits for him to let go, but Tezuka lingers, calloused fingers tracing his for a moment before he finally lets go.

He stands up just as the alarm goes off and Momo rolls over in bed with a groan. Ryoma throws a pillow at Momo to wake him up. Tezuka leaves the room as quietly as he came.

Ryoma feels like his nerves are on end all day, his fingertips tingling whenever he _sees_ Buchou, like he's still touching him. Tezuka doesn't seek him out, doesn't avoid him either. Ryoma wants to play him but winds up watching Tezuka play Fuji instead, until the power of the two of them on the court has him so on-edge he picks a sparring fight with Eiji just to have something else to do. He doesn't miss Fuji's chuckle when he stalks off the court, though he suspects Tezuka is too focused on the game to even remember his existence.

Eiji takes him to a seventh-game tiebreak set that lasts over an hour before he manages to break through the acrobatic play, which is now more properly Olympian gymnastic play. Even then the only reason Ryoma manages it is the appearance of Fuji and Tezuka, standing beside each other looking cozy and domestic, and the sight of it burns through Ryoma in a sudden white hot determination. Ryoma can think of at least six different people who'd like Tezuka to be their one true rival, and that's before he's even out of the Kantou prefecture. Fuji is good, Fuji is excellent, but it's Ryoma, not Fuji or Yukimura or Atobe or any of the others, who will stand beside Tezuka in the end. The two of them are going to defeat Hyotei and Rikkai so badly at nationals that no one else will ever think of coming near them. It doesn't matter whether Tezuka goes pro or not. Ryoma will come back and play him every week if he has to. So people will know.

He slams a cyclone smash past Eiji with a burst of strength he thought he'd lost hours ago.

When it's all over and he's finished being thoroughly hugged by Eiji at the net, he looks back at Tezuka, and all at once the restless unsettled feeling evaporates.

Tezuka knows already, he thinks.

"It's too bad you dragged Eiji away, Echizen," Fuji says lightly, and Ryoma doesn't miss the way he lets his shoulder brush Tezuka's. "He's never seen me beat the captain."

“Hoiii,” Eiji says, whistling. “Tezuka-Buchou lost?”

“Only by match-point,” says Fuji, eyes closed. “It was a good game, wasn’t it, Tezuka?”

“Yes,” Tezuka replies.

Tezuka never looks unhappy about losing. He always looks just the way he does whenever he watches Ryoma play. When their eyes meet, Ryoma almost, almost reaches out and touches his hand.

“Eh, Fuji-senpai,” he says. “It won’t happen twice.” Fuji’s eyes pop open and his smile grows two sizes.

“Are you so confident, Echizen?” he says. He sounds delighted. “I’ve been practicing a lot.”

“Che,” Ryoma says, letting Tezuka see him smirk. “So has Buchou.”

Everyone talks about the match between Tezuka and Fuji at dinner, and Eiji feigns indignation that no one cares that he only lost to Ryoma by one game. Oishi pokes him in the ribs. Taka serves giant piles of steamed dumplings, one of which winds up in the cat bowl that has miraculously appeared for Karupin, six of which wind up in Karupin’s stomach. Kaidoh watches Momo wolf them all down, fascinated and repulsed the whole time. Inui writes down everything everyone says at dinner, then attempts to talk to Tezuka about the statistical details of his match. The gleam on the edge of his glasses gets brighter with every passing moment Tezuka ignores him. Fuji makes Taka turn bright red three times during the course of dinner. Sakuno stays bright red the whole time. Tomoko puts on an apron and screams until she procures volunteers to help her with the dishes. She’s loud, but effective, Ryoma thinks. Karupin struts around after his meal with his tail straight up. Ryoma watches him weave between Tezuka’s legs.

After dinner, Ryuzaki-sensai announces that tomorrow, Thursday, is a full day off from training. It’s useless to make Seigaku take a full day off, everyone knows that – they are past adrenaline at this point, energy flowing through them like the mountain stream they have raced against every morning. But it feels like time well earned, and the freedom of a day, an entire day, settles over them all like relief.

Tezuka looks at Ryoma.

The two of them play each other against the backdrop of pines spiraling up from canyon plunges, beneath twilight unfolding across a mountain sky. The courts are deserted, and if they attract bystanders from among the other members of Seigaku, Ryoma doesn’t know or care. In past matches they have teased, have talked. This match is different. This match Ryoma can’t speak except through the rhythm of his swings against Tezuka’s. His muscles ache from his earlier match with Kikumaru-senpai, but he wants it that way. He wants Buchou to have his first, his last, his best, to have him at his tiredest and his strongest. He wants to draw something out of Tezuka that no one else ever will or can. He tells him so over and over again.

They play until they can no longer see the ball. There are no practice lights on the courts and no one left to see them play a match that has no end.

They don’t shake hands. Tezuka lets Ryoma stand on tiptoe and drape his arms across his shoulders. He pulls Ryoma closer. The net gets caught loosely between them but it doesn’t matter. They stand like that for a long time: foreheads touching; eyes closed.

They don’t talk on their way back to the cabin. Tezuka takes long showers; Ryoma finishes his and takes his time toweling off. He wonders what will happen next.

Tezuka steps out of the shower with his towel around his waist. He wipes his face with a dry towel and looks up at his own face in the bathroom mirror. Ryoma is leaning against a sink next to him.

Tezuka reaches over and touches Ryoma’s hair, lets his fingers slide slowly through it for a moment.

He turns around when he pulls on his boxers and shorts, and Ryoma almost laughs. He watches Tezuka as he slides his t-shirt on. His muscles shift beneath his skin. His hair is still wet.

Ryoma doesn’t change clothes. He follows Buchou back to his room with his towel still wrapped around his waist. Tezuka’s room is empty. Ryoma walks in and sits on the bed, trying not to look around at the casual mess of clothes and books scattered between Oishi’s bed and Tezuka’s. Tezuka’s bed is neatly made. The pillows are fluffed. Ryoma thinks about lying back and going to sleep.

Tezuka steps inside and locks the door. He turns around and looks at Ryoma, and suddenly Ryoma isn’t tired at all. Tezuka stands by the door for another moment, and they watch each other until the seriousness of it all becomes absurd, and Ryoma laughs. “Come here,” he says.

Tezuka comes to sit next to him on the bed. “Are you going to steal my glasses again?”

“Yes.” Ryoma reaches up to tug them gently off Tezuka’s face. “Can you still see me?” he asks.

Tezuka says, “Yes.” Then he says, “Ryoma,” and places his thumb gently beneath Ryoma’s chin.

Every time Ryoma has thought of this he has seen hesitation, has imagined them barely touching each other. But Tezuka is Tezuka, and the hesitation vanishes the moment he tilts Ryoma’s head. Everything is instinct, just like stepping onto a court together. Tezuka’s mouth against Ryoma’s is firm and open, and the shock of it bursts through Ryoma like the match point of the U.S. Open.

Tezuka’s glasses are still dangling between Ryoma’s fingers when he cups them around Tezuka’s face. His cheek is the smoothest thing Ryoma has ever touched. He opens his mouth and lets Tezuka’s cover it. Tezuka’s lips are thin and his kisses are slow and good. They feel like rainwater in his mouth, cool and insistent. Ryoma murmurs something warm and feels Tezuka’s arms coming around him, pulling him closer. He burrows against Tezuka, fingers rustling the edges of Tezuka’s t-shirt. Tezuka shifts and suddenly they’re right next to each other, chests touching. Tezuka’s chest is firm and solid, and when Ryoma run his palm over it he suddenly feels weightless – he hears the catch in his breath before he feels it. All he can take in are Tezuka’s skin and his muscles and his mouth.

He tilts his head up and it’s still not far enough, not close enough to feel taken over like he wants. He tries to pull Tezuka’s head down even more, but Tezuka is too tall and he’s already leaning over him, so instead Ryoma just tugs hard on his t-shirt and pulls him all the way down. They fall back against the warm bedcovers and Tezuka is suddenly pressed against him all over, his mouth still covering Ryoma’s. Ryoma writhes and tries not to push up too much, tries not to scare Buchou away.

Tezuka doesn’t stop; he lets out a soft murmur of approval and slides his tongue briefly inside Ryoma’s mouth – Ryoma gasps and tries to adjust, but it’s gone just as quickly. Tezuka leans in and presses his mouth against the hollow of Ryoma’s neck, and his tongue touches nerve endings all through Ryoma. Ryoma moans, he can’t help it; he feels all over like one of Tezuka’s drop shots is plummeting to zero gravity inside his stomach. He tries to wind his fingers through Tezuka’s hair, but it’s too silky, too soft, and just makes him long to feel every bit of Tezuka’s skin pressed against his.

He doesn’t realize he’s had his eyes shut until he drags in a breath and forces them open to look at Tezuka. The hollows of his cheeks are taut – his whole face looks sharper, leaner without his glasses, and his eyes are darker than they have ever been. Ryoma sucks in another breath and says, “Buchou,” forcing the word out in a shaky whisper. Tezuka looks at him, and Ryoma presses into him, leaning up enough to get a hand under Tezuka’s shirt before he yanks it off.

Tezuka’s eyes widen a moment before the cotton disappears over his head but when he re-emerges, flyaway hair in his eyes, he doesn’t look fazed at all. Ryoma’s eyes rake down his chest, over the line of hair creeping below his navel, the muscles he has memorized through sweat soaked shirts and foggy locker rooms, but never been this close to – never been able to reach out and _touch._

It’s Tezuka this time who rakes in an uneven breath. Then he calmly bends back down and kisses his way down Ryoma’s waist. Ryoma starts in surprise and falls back against Tezuka’s pillow – the bed is narrow and Tezuka is leaning over him completely, there’s no room for anything else but submission. He throws his head back and tries not to squirm, but it’s impossible – Tezuka slides a hand over his chest in one long touch, and just the _idea_ that this is Tezuka, Tezuka touching him any way he wants, makes Ryoma gasp and arch up. Screw patience. His hands find Tezuka’s back, trace his vertebrae up to the long line of his neck, his hair and the stubble under his chin, over his shoulders and his chest and his nipples. He can’t do anything but touch. He’s never going to stop touching.

When Ryoma’s fingertips scrabble desperately at his waist, trying to connect to any part of him he can reach, Tezuka laughs, a low, throaty chuckle. Ryoma’s never heard him _sound_ like that before, it’s something just for him, for this, and Ryoma never knew he could make so many incoherent sounds in response. Tezuka’s fingertips slide over Ryoma’s chest, and he leans up to kiss Ryoma again just as he brushes his fingertips over Ryoma’s nipple. Ryoma gasps so hard he nearly loses it, loses everything, and almost forgets to start breathing again. He wraps both arms around Tezuka's back and clings to him as Tezuka kisses his forehead. “Shhh,” he murmurs, but his voice is hoarse, and Ryoma can feel his struggle to stay calm in the vibration of his voice, in the slight tremor of the muscles in his arms and legs as they brush against Ryoma’s own.

“Just,” he says against Tezuka’s mouth, voice breaking. “Just let me – I don’t care, I need– “

“Wait,” Tezuka says, trying to be stern, which looks more like trying to _try_ to be stern. “Relax.”

“ _You_ relax,” Ryoma says, biting his lip because it’s the only thing he can think of to keep control, and he slips his fingers into Tezuka’s waistband, moving his hands down to cup Tezuka’s ass and pull him against him.

Tezuka inhales sharply, a gasp of surprise and pleasure, and then he looks at Ryoma, eyes glittering. “Alright,” he says, before pressing Ryoma back against the mattress and forcing his head back in a hard kiss. When the pillow gets in the way of his control he yanks it unceremoniously out from beneath Ryoma’s head. Ryoma can’t get leverage against Tezuka’s skin this way, can’t arch up enough to regain control, can’t fight the way Tezuka is kissing him with his hips elevated. He can’t touch, can’t grind, can’t feel how hard Tezuka is. He groans in frustration, and this time instead of biting his own lip he bites Tezuka’s.

Tezuka makes a sound that can only be arousal, and Ryoma nearly comes all over himself from that alone. Ryoma bites his lip experimentally again, then bites at the dint in Tezuka’s chin. Tezuka’s breathing goes shallow, and Ryoma murmurs, “Gotcha,” softly before he kisses him again.

Tezuka dips his tongue inside Ryoma’s mouth, lets Ryoma taste it for a moment.

Then he breaks the kiss, wrenches the towel away from Ryoma’s waist, and slides his shorts off all in the same fluid movement. Ryoma stares up at him, so hard he’s dizzy, staring at Tezuka’s body. He’s on his knees, leaning over Ryoma on one hand, fully erect and somehow managing to look serious even with the sheen of sweat breaking over his body and his lips barely resisting a smile.

“Yes,” says Tezuka, and he doesn’t need to say anything else, because the look in his eyes fills in all the rest. Ryoma looks back at him and he knows his eyes are probably saying just as much. They know each other best like this. He closes his eyes because it suddenly hurts to keep them open – his chest feels too tight, like it’s match point, even though he already knows how this game will be.

“Buchou,” he says, and he doesn’t fight the whisper, doesn’t fight how uncontrolled it sounds. Tezuka bends down and kisses him, locks their bodies together all the way down. He doesn’t resist when Ryoma presses into him with a shuddering breath, wrapping his legs around Tezuka’s waist. Ryoma grips Tezuka’s shoulders, heels digging hard into the backs of Tezuka’s calves. Tezuka’s cock slips against his, bruising Ryoma’s thigh every time Ryoma presses up. His hand moves over Ryoma’s skin, skimming over the dips in Ryoma’s stomach, the flare of his hips, before finally – finally – trailing down to wrap around Ryoma’s erection. Ryoma arches up in short thrusts as Tezuka strokes him; his fingers are long and steady, thumb roughing the underside of Ryoma’s cock, glazing it with sweat and heat and guiding the pulsing heat and the slick hard length of his own against Ryoma’s until Ryoma is shuddering and bucking against him hard enough to make the mattress jerk and squeak against the frame.

Ryoma slips a hand up into Tezuka’s hair and keeps it there, plying it between his fingers, feeling how soft it is, how smooth Tezuka’s shoulders are, the skin at the base of his neck. “I want – “ he manages, but he can’t say what he wants because he wants _everything_ . Tezuka just keeps kissing him, letting Ryoma rock against him, pushing back and rolling his hips up because he can’t _not_ \- this is Tezuka, this is Buchou. Ryoma has waited and waited for this and he can’t, he _can’t_ hold back.

Tezuka murmurs Ryoma’s name and strokes faster, kissing his forehead, his cheeks, his lips, even his nose, which shouldn’t make Ryoma harder but makes him clench his fists to keep silent. An image flashes through his mind, of Tezuka kissing him like this on a court, of his hand brushing Ryoma’s shoulder, thumb lingering near the back of Ryoma’s neck, and he knows in a flash of yearning that starts in his toes and explodes through him that this is how they will be – just like the game they played earlier – no end and no winner, but tied and pressed together at center court _forever_ . And even as his head hits the mattress and his hips jerk off the bed entirely, his orgasm hits in a wave of an even deeper yearning, because it’s not enough, it’s not enough, it will never be enough until they are air, until they can crawl inside each other’s skin and stay there.

He shudders through his climax with Tezuka holding his hips steady, and when he opens his eyes Tezuka is looking at him with wonder and surprise and something else that Ryoma wants to put inside of him and keep and never lose. He gasps, “Fuck me,” before pulling Tezuka down for a brutal kiss, his nerves shot and his body still trembling. “Please – fuck me, do it now, Buchou.”

“Ryoma,” Tezuka says, a bit breathlessly, resting his head against Ryoma’s shoulder. Ryoma hums and settles against him. Tezuka kisses his hair and gathers him up into warm arms, fingers moving lightly over Ryoma’s cheek. “I want to. Very much. But…”

Ryoma pouts and rolls over, sliding almost on top of him so he can study Tezuka’s face. “I know you’re not going pro,” he says. “You haven’t wanted to tell me but it’s okay, Buchou. It won’t matter – I’ll still play you. We can still have this, it won’t change or anything.”

Tezuka looks back at him ineffably for a moment before continuing: “But I didn’t bring any protection.”

Ryoma blinks. “Oh.”

“Sorry,” says Tezuka, a bit lamely.

Ryoma briefly imagines Tezuka rummaging around looking for condoms. It’s a lose-lose: finding anything in Oishi’s bags would kill whatever lust he currently feels.

“I’ll get some from Momo tomorrow,” he says without elaboration, sinking down against the warmth of Tezuka’s chest.

“Ah,” says Tezuka expressively. Ryoma loves that Buchou will never ask him to follow that up with explanation. He can think of lots of things he loves about Buchou at the moment.

Tezuka runs his fingers over Ryoma’s stomach and Ryoma all but purrs. He’s suddenly extremely sleepy, and Tezuka is warm and solid beside him.

He is fighting closing his eyes when Tezuka murmurs, “And I know it won’t.”

“Yeah,” Ryoma murmurs sleepily. What he thinks is: _how could anything change this?_

He thinks he should probably find out what Buchou wants to do in a university anyway – they don’t offer degrees in tennis, do they? - but he’s so tired that his next question turns into a yawn before he has figured out what he was going to say anyway.

The thought crosses his mind that Buchou didn’t come yet, but when he lazily leans down to wrap his fingers around Tezuka’s waning erection, Tezuka catches them and drags them up to his waist. “Go to sleep,” he says gently.

“Mmmm,” Ryoma says by way of response, and nudges into Tezuka’s hand where it strokes his hair.

He’s almost completely asleep when the thought suddenly occurs to him. He sits up:

“Buchou, your glasses - ”

Tezuka gazes at him calmly. “On the dresser,” he says.

Ryoma looks. Tezuka’s glasses are folded neatly on the nightstand. Ryoma has no idea how they wound up there, but Tezuka’s straight face is annoyingly expressionless, so he scoots up and places his fingers over Tezuka’s eyes.

“Can you still see me?” he asks.

Tezuka smiles. Behind Ryoma’s fingers, he closes his eyes and keeps them closed.

“Yes,” he says.


End file.
